


Vis à Vis

by falselynx



Category: Metal Gear
Genre: Gluten - Freeform, M/M, Vomiting, bad french pronunciation, pain (the french kind), roundabouts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-28
Updated: 2018-01-28
Packaged: 2019-03-10 12:39:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13501826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/falselynx/pseuds/falselynx
Summary: Ocelot was inscrutible, but Kaz knew a “like what you see?” if he ever saw one, being the reigning champion of that look himself. And the answer was a resounding “No.”It's 1976. Kaz meets a man called "Ocelot" under completely trustworthy conditions and gets roped into a road trip from hell across France. There's no getting off this ride.





	Vis à Vis

**Author's Note:**

> I started this fic almost a year ago, didn't touch it for months, and finally decided I should finish it in time for Ocekaz Week 2k18. I Did Not finish it in time for Ocekaz Week 2k18. 
> 
> I've seen many other fantastic takes on the premise of Ocelot and Kaz first meeting, but wanted to try my hand at my own and cram as many french jokes as I could into one fic.
> 
> anyway hi welcome to my one and only metal gear fic, a labor of love, finally I am free from this hell even though Kaz will never be.

The first time Kaz heard his voice, he should've known what he'd been in for. But it was 1976, he'd been conveniently working his way through a bottle of gin that night, and frankly, he'd been so desperate for work that there wasn't much he would've said no to.  
  
1 AM was as good a time as any to follow up on a shady phone call for work, especially while only slightly under the influence. It wasn't like he had anything better to do.  
  
He picked up the phone and dialed the number he'd been given to call.  
  
There was some crackling on the other line, and then a man answered. “Ah. Miller. I'll assume you're calling to accept my offer. Ever been to France?”  
  
“What's in France?”  
  
“Well, you will be, in a little under 48 hours. Already booked your flight to Paris.”  
  
If that wasn't fucking presumptuous, Kaz didn't know what was. But if he wasn't paying for it, he wasn't about to object. The voice on the other line explained a few details of his already-taken-care-of travel arrangements in what sounded like the most put-on cinema western accent he'd ever heard, but didn't say much else about the nature of the job. Apparently they'd discuss the details in person later. _Totally_ not suspicious at all, but Slightly-Tipsy Kaz was all for surprises and reckless decisions and, after all, he had nothing to lose.  
  
“How will I find you?”  
  
“You won't need to worry about that. You land in Paris, and I'll find you.”  
  
“...Right. Of course.” Kaz rolled a pen back and forth across his desk, irritated. He could already tell there was no point in asking for details when the other man had made it clear he'd be basically going into this blind. And there was nothing Kaz loved more than being at an informational disadvantage when there was business involved.  
  
“Oh, and the name's Ocelot, by the way. Perhaps you've heard of me?”  
  
And that was _just_ as helpful and cryptic as every other tidbit of information this benevolent stranger had given him. Kaz knew no more now than he had before he'd made the call.  
  
“...From your silence I'll have to assume he hasn't told you about me. Figures.”  
  
“Who do you mean? ...Snake?” That name caught in his throat a little on the way out. He wasn't sure if the other man had even heard it, though, because the line had already gone dead.

  
\---  
  
Kaz stepped off the plane at 5:30 AM with the edges of a headache throbbing in his temples. He hadn't slept well in days, and might've been slightly hungover, but _that_ was nothing new. He wandered through the terminal, feeling foreign and not quite there, pondering why on earth he'd ever allowed himself to stoop low enough to accept a short notice job on so little intel.  
  
Just when he was starting to wonder where he was supposed to go and whether his mysterious new consort would ever show up, a voice from behind him, in a familiar exaggerated accent, informed him that they would be heading toward the rental cars.  
  
_“Christ-”_ He turned to get a proper look at the man and—oh, yeah, he was even worse than Kaz had imagined. Not unattractive, but willfully oblivious to the laws of fashion. And he had the sort of fabricated friendly expression that made Kaz want to turn around and get right back on the plane.  
  
Seriously, who the fuck wears spurs in Paris?  
  
“Do you normally introduce yourself to people this way?” Kaz glanced at the man now walking completely naturally at his side, in a manner that suggested they'd been business partners for years. _As if._  
  
“I _was_ waiting for you to notice me, but that was taking too long.”  
  
“I dunno, normally people shake hands, say, oh, _hi,_ I'm...”  
  
“ _Ocelot_ ,” the man finished patiently, as if Kaz hadn't remembered his name and wasn't just deliberately refusing to use it. “We can still shake hands, if you'd prefer.” He held out a gloved hand. Red, to match the scarf tucked into his coat. Naturally.  
  
Kaz shrugged off the gesture. “Too late now.”  
  
Ocelot seemed unconcerned as he folded his hands back into his coat pockets.  
  
\---  
  
As Ocelot signed the rental agreement and chatted pleasantly with the man at the desk in the most horrendously broken French he'd ever heard, Kaz leaned against the wall, still trying to fully take in the man before him.  
  
Kaz had spent long enough learning a natural American inflection that he could spot another pseudo-American accent a mile away, especially one as over-the-top as this. And the man _clearly_ hadn't come from _France.  
  
_ He had a sharp face—a little weathered, but still elegant, in a sort of prissy rich boy way. His hair was combed back neatly in a style not unlike his own, though unlike Kaz, was showing early signs of greying, more silvery ash than blonde.

_  
_ From the shape of his nose, Kaz had to guess Slavic. At least, that'd explain the apparent preference for the color red.

_  
_ Through some kind of catlike sixth sense, Ocelot must have noticed him staring, because he turned to flash Kaz a playful smirk in between signing rental agreements. Kaz returned his gaze behind the veil of his aviators, looking back in what he hoped was complete stonefaced indifference. Ocelot was inscrutible, but Kaz knew a _“like what you see?”_ if he ever saw one, being the reigning champion of that look himself. And the answer was a resounding _“No.”_  
  
As they made their way across the parking lot to find their car, Ocelot informed him that they had a long drive ahead of them. Kaz was about as thrilled to hear this news as he was to see the vehicle in question: A 1975 Citroen 2CV. Small, cramped, and looked like it'd fall apart if you drove it over anything more than a single lane country road. A real marvel in French engineering.

  
“ _Really?_ This?”  
  
“It's cute, don't you think?” Of _course_ he liked it. It was red.  
  
“I think it might be the ugliest excuse for a vehicle I've ever seen,” Kaz retorted under his breath.  
  
Ocelot smiled. “Well, you better get comfortable. It's gonna be you, me, this loyal steed and the scenic countryside of _la France_ for roughly eight hours. Think you can handle that?”

  
“Can't think of anyone Í'd rather be stuck with for hours in a tiny metal coffin,” Kaz replied, not even trying to hide his sarcasm.

At least neither of them had a lot of luggage. Kaz wasn't sure if Ocelot's 'loyal steed' could have handled more than the two of them and their suitcases, anyway. They clambored into the car, Ocelot briefly checking a map while Kaz fiddled with his seat, soon concluding it to be a lost cause.

  
Kaz glanced over at the map. “So, I take it our business is outside of France.”  
  
“Algeria, actually. We'll be driving down to Marseille to take a ferry.”  
  
Kaz frowned. This was already turning out to be a much bigger undertaking than he'd bargained for. “So I'll assume there's a reason why we didn't do the easy thing and just fly directly to Algiers?”

 

“Of course,” replied Ocelot patiently, “I've arranged for the ferry to be a private affair, since it'll be carrying us, some associates, and some... _merchandise_ I've acquired, you could say.” Kaz gave him a hard sideways glance, which Ocelot promptly ignored before continuing. “That, and it'll give us some time to get to know each other.”

  
“Won't _that_ be fun,” Kaz muttered through bared teeth.  
  
Ocelot smiled serenely as he started the car's pathetic engine and pulled away from the lot. Kaz vowed silently to never make a business decision under the influence at 1 AM ever again.

  
\---  
  
“If we weren't on such a tight schedule, I'd take a detour to Normandy... You know, the D-Day beaches. I'd love to see them sometime. Pay my respects.”

  
“Yeah, well. You can do that on your own damn time.” Kaz had taken up fidgeting with his seat again, and had been met with undesirable results. His face was practically pressed against the windshield of the tiny vehicle, and the seat back wouldn't budge. He sighed.

  
“They say,” Ocelot continued, choosing to ignore Kaz's plight, “that the Boss gave birth on the battlefield that very day. Can you imagine?”

  
“Can't even _begin_ to,” Kaz growled through bared teeth as he put every ounce of strength he had into the seat's lever to no avail.

  
“They never do talk about what happened to the baby after that. I've always found that a little... I dunno. _Odd._ ”

  
Kaz stared out the front window sullenly from an extremely forward tilted angle, watching the French countryside meander past them slower than he wished it would. “Any particular reason _why_ I needed to hear about this?”  
  
“I just thought you might find it illuminating,” Ocelot mused. “I can't imagine _he_ told you much about the Boss, anyway.”  
  
“ _Illuminating.”_ Kaz laughed. “If _that's_ what you want to call it.”  
  
Kaz would call it “showing off.”  
  
Still, Ocelot wasn't wrong. Snake was closed off to begin with, which was magnified to extreme levels when the Boss was mentioned. Whenever Kaz had tried to coax anything out of him, or _god forbid_ , the time he'd suggested Snake should _move on,_ he'd been met with a silent fury for days.

_  
_ What he _did_ know was that there had always been a part of Snake that was out of his reach. The Boss was the cloth he wore around his head, the winding scar etched in his abdomen. When his eyes were far away, when he seemed to drift apart from the world around him, _that_ was the Boss. Snake was more of a wild animal than a man; in a lot of ways, that raw, earthy demeanor was what made him so attractive. But when he was thinking about _her—_ that was when he seemed most human. It was a side of Snake that had always been foreign to Kaz, a door that would never open for him. Somehow, the Boss had found something in this man that no one else had. That, most likely, no one else ever _would—_

_  
_ Kaz felt his seat lunge backwards all at once, and broke out of his daze just in time to see Ocelot's red glove return to the steering wheel from the side of his seat. “what the FUCK—” He spluttered, before settling into a reluctant relief that this was the position he had wanted the seat in all along.  
  
“You're _welcome,_ ” Ocelot smiled smugly, and Kaz returned him with a very unwelcome gesture.  
  
\---  
  
Fortunately, after that, the two of them quieted down, and the hour that followed was spent mainly in silence. It seemed like Ocelot wasn't the type of person that needed to fill every moment with conversation—that was only _most_ of the time. Kaz was grateful enough to not be subjected to the man's stupid accent, so he resisted the urge to prod him in hopes of learning anything interesting. It was becoming clear that this man kept his cards infuriatingly close to his chest.  
  
He let the silence wash over him like a shaky truce, the hum of the engine lulling him in and out of consciousness. It was the same shallow, unfulfilling state of sleep he'd been in on the plane ride over. Hell, now that he thought about it, when was the last time he'd even _had_ a fulfilling sleep—  
  
“Hey, _Miller,_ ever heard of the gingham dog and the calico cat?”  
  
At first, Kaz tried to pretend he was too asleep to hear him, even though a part of him knew Ocelot was well aware that he was fully awake and listening. The bastard had probably been waiting until he was sure Kaz's attempts to catch up on jetlag had failed miserably, just to burden his ears with the most nonsensical phrase he could think of. The moment stretched on in silence. Maybe if he could continue to deny the man a response, he'd eventually give up trying. Kaz lost this internal battle to hold his tongue, however, as soon as he realized Ocelot had been circling the same roundabout for the past five minutes.  
  
“Are you _trying_ to make me sick? Because believe me, I'll be happy to hurl all over that stupid scarf if you can't start driving in a straight line.”  
  
“Didn't you know you're supposed to look out the window when you're feeling carsick?”  
  
Still circling. Alright. Two could play at this game.  
  
Kaz wasn't above willing himself to vomit, and this being his primary means of retaliation, was all too happy to shove his finger deep into his throat to help the feeling along.  
  
This action, however, didn't escape Ocelot's watchful eyes, and within seconds, Kaz felt a gloved hand clench firmly over his face just as the contents of his stomach heaved up his throat. It was mostly acid; he hadn't eaten a meal since the airport, and that was hours ago. As he felt the bile build in his mouth, he groped at the glove tightly pressed against his lips, but Ocelot wouldn't budge, all the while continuing the car's neverending orbit. He forcefully tilted Kaz's jaw upward, Kaz struggling to expel acid, struggling for air, briefly dislodging Ocelot's hand long enough to cough a trail of vomit pathetically down his front before the red glove latched over his jaw harder than before.

 

The more Kaz fought against his grip, the harder Ocelot pushed him back. As he heaved against the glove with his head pressed roughly against the headrest, he started to wonder if Ocelot intended for him to asphyxiate. Ocelot, however, seemed more intent on keeping his shitty rental steed's undeserving interior clean- and maybe teaching Kaz a lesson in the process.

  
“Swallow it,” he instructed, “And I'll let go.”

 

Kaz wanted to scream, to slam Ocelot's stupid smug face right through the window of the feeble red car, but fuck, he couldn't breathe and he was getting desperate. With a great deal of effort, he choked it down, gagging against that fucking glove, flashing animosity, his esophagus on fire and his hands still clutching uselessly at Ocelot's forearm. The grip on his face let up enough to let Kaz breathe desperately through his nose, burning nostrils flaring, thick with the smell of bile.

Kaz turned, raw, weak and humiliated, to face Ocelot. He wasn't sure what he was hoping to see on that inscrutible face, but it certainly wasn't the expression of detached amusement that greeted him.

  
“Sorry about your glove,” Kaz spat, not the least bit sorry, sincerely wishing that he'd managed to get more of his vomit on the rest of his companion's outfit.

  
“Oh, it's seen worse.” Ocelot smiled, whatever the fuck _that_ meant, and proceeded to wipe his hand down Kaz's scarf.  
  
The one good thing about Kaz's dramatic little display was that Ocelot seemed to have taken his hint. The car sped onward, the route ahead blessedly devoid of roundabouts.  
  
Kaz paid dearly for this small victory, however, with a burning esophagus, hair and clothing sprinkled with a thin layer of bile, and a rancid taste he couldn't get out of his mouth. He'd kill for some water and a shower, but like hell was he going to admit it. He still had a strand of pride to stand on.  
  
“You never did answer my question,” Ocelot mused after a while, interrupting the uncomfortable silence to hear his own voice. “The gingham dog and the calico cat. It's a children's nursery rhyme. I'll assume you haven't heard of it.”  
  
Oh. This again.

  
“Sounds like I'm about to.” Speaking was a mistake. He probably sounded as terrible as he looked. Ocelot didn't seem to care, however, because he barrelled onward with his meandering literary analysis. Kaz was only barely listening, but it had something to do with a cat and a dog tearing each other to pieces and eating each other up while the master of the house was away. Ocelot _would_ like that, wouldn't he. Kaz could already tell the guy was exactly that type of sadistic bastard.  
  
“—Still, I think I relate more to the plate in that situation. The plate had the right idea... stand back, don't get involved, and let the weaker minds destroy each other. The _plate_ knows that the master will return, and he'll want a reliable source to tell him what happened.”  
  
What the fuck was he on about now? Ocelot's voice kept going, and it was just monotonous enough that Kaz felt himself drifting off again. Maybe he _could_ fall asleep after all...

_He dreamt of Costa Rica.  
  
He always dreamt of Costa Rica, now.  
  
It was silent, save for the rhythmic lapping of waves on the beach. A few scattered lights littered the horizon behind them, but the darkness spread in an expanse of sky meeting ocean, broken by a waning moon reflecting a narrow strip of light over the water. They were side by side—he and Snake, the balmy breeze whipping the ends of his boss's bandana, his hair, untamed as ever, momentarily fluttering across the lone eye fixed somewhere beyond the water.  
  
There was a sinking feeling that ate through his periphery; flames, blood, shattering, falling, the ringing in his ears, swallowed by the ocean...  
  
He pushed it away.  
  
He was content like this, with Snake, the two of them wandering through their own dark passages, but still, they had each other. Alone together. Parallel.  
  
His dreams were a welcome escape from the reality he faced in his waking hours; they held a world where nothing had changed. He and Snake were frozen in time, a fleeting moment of contentment preserved under glass, a mental terrarium of what could have been.  
  
Every time he returned to this moment, he was distinctly aware how much of this operation, their world, had hinged on Kaz, on his decisions, on what he chose to say and how he chose to say it. How maybe, if he'd done something differently, things wouldn't have ended the way they did.  
  
They could've gotten rid of the nuke. He could've been more honest with his boss, kept out of bigger conflicts, taken less dangerous jobs, made smarter choices...  
  
...And spent the rest of his life feeling restrained like a dog, trapped and bored and wishing he'd done more.  
  
The truth was that he was Kazuhira Fucking Miller, and he was incapable of curbing his pride. He was a man of business, after all, and you don't gain a thing in business without taking risks. Something in him knew that he could only ever be on top of the world, or burning in hell; he wouldn't take anything in between.  
  
He could fantasize about letting himself settle, and he thought about it often. But there was only one direction he could fly.  
  
Straight to the sun.  
  
_  
The shift in the humming engine as the car slowed to a halt was enough to ease Kaz back into a bewildered consciousness. With the edges of his mind still lingering on the taste of Costa Rica, he snapped back to the present, the events of the past year flashing through him in that unfortunate jolt that usually hit upon waking. And then there was one brief, blissful moment that Kaz was sure he'd been out for hours and they were already pulling into Marseille...  
  
...Only a moment, though. And then he was back in a gas station just outside of Beaune, grimy and disheveled with the sour smell of puke still burning in his nostrils. He checked the clock on the dash. He'd been out for a mere 20 minutes.  
  
“Have a nice beauty sleep, Miller? I've been told my voice can have a hypnotic effect on people.” Ocelot gave a performative sigh. “It's a shame, really. I'd like to think my observations were interesting... Must've been above your reading level.”  
  
Kaz was about to scoff something about captive audiences, but he was still too hazy to formulate a snappy comeback. It was just as well; Ocelot, having already insulted his intelligence, wasted no time in moving on to commenting on his rank odor. Kaz was all too happy to storm out of the car and accommodate Ocelot's subtle request to clean up in the gas station bathroom, if only for the fleeting moment of privacy.  
  
\---

  
The bathroom, like most gas station bathrooms, left something to be desired, and the green tinted light made him appear gaunt and sickly. That, or it felt better to blame the lighting than accept the fact that he'd look like a goddamn mess even if he'd been under the soft glow of studio lamps in a glamor shoot. If he was being entirely truthful, he'd lost the spark in his eyes and the glow in his cheeks the day he'd watched the only home he'd ever had go up in flames.  
  
He'd left his youth in 1975. That Kaz was dead. He _should_ be dead. That moment, at the pinnacle, right when it all went down in flames, that's when he should have gone. A death with meaning. A rise and a fall. He would've deserved it— _earned it._  
  
And yet, somehow, he'd missed his stop. They'd patched him up; outwardly whole, inwardly shattered. Left to wander the earth, a reanimated corpse stripped of purpose in this meaningless limbo, the remaining expanse of his life an epilogue he'd never asked for. Trying to convince himself that rebuilding what he'd lost would be worthwhile, that the blood of those who had taken everything from him would fill the gaping hole in his heart.  
  
He cupped his hands in the sink basin, let them fill with water again and again, submerging his face, swishing it in his mouth, running it through his hair. Automatic motions. It felt like everything he did was automatic now. He had always thought of himself as tenacious, ambitious, and yet- without Snake, he couldn't help but feel like a gun that had lost its luster. Without a hand to pull the trigger, he was just an object. Purposeless.  
  
He'd never been one to forget about his appearance, at least, not _before._ And it wasn't as if he was visibly slipping in that regard. 30 years old, in more or less peak physical condition, objectively attractive. Sure, he'd been neglecting to shave more often, and he wore his sleep deprivation under his eyes, but that's what aviators were for. He slipped them back on and looked vaguely passable as a no longer vomit-encrusted but still exhausted American tourist.

  
“You look _fine,_ beauty queen.”  
  
What... the fuck.

  
How long had he been standing there?  
  
“That's fucking creepy, you know that?” Kaz turned wearily to face Ocelot, inwardly hating himself for not noticing sooner. Then again, if he wanted so badly to watch Kaz stare in the mirror while he had his daily low key internal breakdown, well, fine. Kaz was already past caring.  
  
Ocelot shrugged, nonchalant as ever. “You did leave the door unlocked.” As if that had been an invitation.  
  
“And what if I had been—”  
  
Ocelot raised an eyebrow. “Taking a shit?”  
  
“No, I meant...” Kaz could feel his face burning, as much as he willed it not to.  
  
“Oh, that?” Ocelot clicked his tongue, giving Kaz a condescending smile. “Get your mind out of the gutter, Miller. Believe it or not, not _everyone_ is desperate for your body.”  
  
Kaz rolled his eyes in a display of disgust that was more performative and less genuine than he'd intended. “Rest assured, having you around is basically the opposite of an aphrodisiac.”  
  
Ocelot smirked. “Glad we're on the same page. Anyway, I was hoping you'd be done preening so I could wash this.” He held up a gloved hand, still visibly vomit-encrusted.  
  
“...Oh. Don't let me stop you.”  
  
Kaz jostled past Ocelot, making sure to elbow him in a way that couldn't possibly be construed as accidental on his way out. It was about as satisfying as punching a wall littered with rusty nails and having to get a tetanus shot afterward.

 

Unsure whether to wait inside or go back to the car, Kaz paced the length of the grimy hallway a couple times before eventually settling awkwardly against the wall outside the bathroom door. Maybe if he started running now, his companion would give up on this whole ridiculous scheme and he could pretend that all of this was some kind of horrible fever dream. He could hitchhike back to Paris, see if he could get in contact with Cécile, and live a blissfully Ocelot-free existence...  
  
Before he had any more time to ponder an escape plan, Ocelot emerged from the bathroom, taking extra care to shake the water from his dripping glove directly into Kaz's face. Kaz wiped his sunglasses and reluctantly put all thoughts of liberation on hold.  
  
\---

  
Ocelot bought a drink on the way out (more for Kaz than for himself, he clarified, insisting that he was feeling generous and Kaz would need the caffeine) and they pulled away from the station at last.  
  
“It's another four or five hours to Marseille from here,” Ocelot announced, as if he were leading a tour bus. “And if you need another bathroom break, or need more _privacy_ , there's a fine selection of gas stations on the way down.”  
  
Kaz rolled his eyes and muttered something about voyeurism under his breath. There was no doubt that Ocelot heard his remarks, because the car very intentionally jerked to the side as he took a sip of his soda.  
  
“You may need to clean that up at some point,” Ocelot suggested all-too-pleasantly as Kaz sullenly mopped up the beverage. It left an attractive brown stain down his shirt.  
  
“Did you know,” Ocelot began, completely ignorning the spiteful glare that Kaz shot his way, “That in a way, a French man named Angelo Mariani was responsible for the invention of Coca Cola?  
  
“Oh, you're just full of fun facts, aren't you.” Kaz finished the contents of his bottle and began picking at the label moodily.  
  
“Well, that's not quite the case, but his invention was certainly what gave that gentleman in America the idea. Mariani was a chemist, and he figured the only way to make wine better was by adding in a little cocaine.”  
  
“C'mon, this is bullshit. You're just making this up.”  
  
“I only speak the truth,” Ocelot continued in the voice of the most practiced of liars that did, occasionally, tell the truth. “Vin Mariani, as it was called, was a very popular drink. Endorsed by multiple popes, I kid you not. Eventually, word of this miraculous beverage reached America, but when Georgia passed a prohibition measure, this fellow named Pemberton figured he'd make a non-alcoholic version. Still had cocaine, though. But _that_ wasn't against the law.”  
  
Kaz yawned, the influx of caffeine in his bloodstream apparently having little to no effect. “Y'know, if I hadn't already known about the cocaine part, I would've said you were full of shit. That's _still_ true, though.”  
  
“They stopped including cocaine in the recipe in 1929, by the way.”  
  
“Yeah, well, if they hadn't, I'd know.” Kaz made a show of yawning again, for emphasis. “I usually need something stronger, anyway.”  
  
“Afraid I don't have any cocaine on me today.” Kaz genuinely couldn't tell if Ocelot meant for this to sound as if he normally _would_ have it on him, but he wouldn't have been surprised.  
  
“You're welcome, by the way, for buying your drink.”  
  
“It was cheap, and you made me spill half of it,” Kaz retorted. “If you really want to make it up to me, then buy me a burger. I'm fucking starving.”  
  
“Hm,” Ocelot paused, seeming to consider his request for all of ten seconds. “There's not much in the way of burgers in the wilds of France. There _are_ plenty of bakeries, though.”  
  
As much as Kaz wanted to tell Ocelot he just wasn't trying hard enough, he'd reached the point of hunger where he'd shove a pile of dirt in his mouth if someone told him it was food, so he didn't protest.

  
And it wasn't as if a fresh baguette and some pastries were _bad.  
_  
It just wasn't the same as a burger.

\---

  
They pulled out of the Boulangerie and back onto the road, Kaz feeling considerably less shaky and considerably more combative after having to stand witness to more of Ocelot's intentionally terrible French pronunciation.  
  
“—And you don't pronounce it like that. _PAIN?_ C'mon, really? Even _I_ know that.” He gnawed on the end of his baguette irritably.  
  
Ocelot smiled. “And here I thought you _liked_ pain.”  
  
Kaz hissed through his teeth. “Typical sadist.”  
  
Ocelot only laughed.  
  
Kaz leaned back in his seat, watching the hilly scenery slide past them while pondering how best to proceed next in a game he'd been set up to lose. He was well aware that Ocelot had remained in control of their situation from the moment they'd met, and it grated Kaz that the man had apparently done his research. He, meanwhile, had next to nothing on Ocelot, aside from the fact that he was annoying, coy, and seemed to be having the time of his fucking life. If he was going to be stuck with this crimson-clad excuse for a cowboy, he may as well try to learn something in the process.  
  
He gave it another half hour of meditative silence before he truly felt bored enough to attempt probing Ocelot for more information.  
  
“Y'know...” Kaz started in what he hoped was a tone of only the slightest curiosity, “I feel like you basically know my life story, but you've still said next to nothing about yourself.”  
  
“Haven't I?”  
  
“Oh, come the fuck on. Cryptic hints and metaphors don't count.” Kaz frowned. “...How about this. You've made it pretty clear that you have some kind of history with Snake. How do you know him, anyway?”  
  
Ocelot smiled, and a sentimental spark seemed to light up his face at the mention of their mutual connection. “Oh, we're... _old friends_ , you could say.”  
  
Kaz glanced suspiciously at him. “Yeah, and that sounds totally trustworthy. Not as if I trusted you to begin with.”  
  
“Just as trustworthy as any other connection he's made in his life. Much like you, we met on the battlefield.”  
  
As if that was some kind of rare coincidence. As if Snake hadn't met just about every person in his life in some way or form _on the battlefield._ “Okay, and I suppose you'll tell me next that you were on opposite sides, and _somehow,_ Snake convinced you to join up with him.” Kaz retorted, unimpressed.  
  
“I wouldn't say _that,”_ Ocelot replied, continuing his gleeful song and dance of vague philosophizing without revealing any clear stance. “To be perfectly honest, I don't believe there _is_ such a thing as opposite sides in war. East and West, right and wrong—seems to me like a pretty limited way of viewing the world. It's the same sort of thinking that would call the two of us opposites. _I'd_ say we have a lot more in common than you'd think.”  
  
Kaz frowned at this comparison. “Well, at least my accent doesn't _suck_ and I have better taste in fashion.”  
  
“Oh, forgive me,” Ocelot replied mirthfully, “I didn't realize yellow went so much better with dried vomit. Have you tried piss, too, or does that clash?”  
  
Kaz didn't dignify him with a verbal response.  
  
Ocelot remained indifferent. “Really though, wouldn't you say our dearest common ally has a thing for blondes?”  
  
“And you're including yourself on that list?” Kaz snorted. “Isn't that a little presumptuous?”  
  
“Only as presumptuous as you are. How well do you really know him?  
  
“Well, he certainly never mentioned _you_ to me. Not once.”  
  
“Would a man in the midst of his midlife crisis tell his trophy wife about his past? ...I believe that's the _point_ of a midlife crisis.” Ocelot gave him a victorious smirk, as if that settled it. Kaz was ready to punch his face in.  
  
“I'm his _trophy wife_? And you're what, his _old flame_? He was probably too fucking _embarrassed_ of you to ever mention it. I know I would be.”  
  
“Hmm. You're right, 'trophy wife' wouldn't give you nearly enough credit. You did a lot more than stand around and look pretty, I'll acknowledge that.”

“You're goddamn right I did. You ever try organizing a military base, _Ocelot?_ Or have you been too busy running around the world making sketchy business arrangements with people who find your presence so intolerable that you constantly have to make new alliances?”  
  
Ocelot was genuinely _laughing_ now. Kaz couldn't figure him out. They paused for a moment, Ocelot seeming to collect himself before responding, his tone more pensive.  
  
“Hm... building a small military empire together does bring a certain closeness, doesn't it? That takes commitment... trust... or at the very least, a shared goal. I'll admit, I'm a little jealous of that.” He smiled, but for the first time all day, Kaz thought he caught a glimpse of something forlorn about Ocelot as he fixed his eyes somewhere a little beyond the road ahead. “Commitment has never been one of my strong points, but there's something appealing about having something to call yours. A home to come back to.”  
  
Kaz sighed. “Yeah, well. I _thought_ I had a home. For the first time in my life, I had a purpose, a job to do that felt right, someone that relied on me... A constant. I belonged somewhere. I'd never felt that before, but with him... I could do anything.”

 

He didn't know why he was telling Ocelot this. It felt raw, but for some reason, the smallest hint of vulnerability from Ocelot had opened the floodgates, and now he couldn't stop. Even stranger was the way Ocelot was looking at him. Not an ounce of condescension, no half-amused smirk pasted to his face... Something in his facade had cracked, and he was really _listening._ It was kind of unsettling, actually.  
  
“It wasn't ever going to last.” Kaz leaned against the glass of the side window, focusing on the wavering line where the paved road met scrubby grass and weeds. “I thought it would. I thought I'd figured it out. But the world doesn't work that way. _People_ don't work that way. Something always happens. And then you have to change... adjust yourself to circumstances you didn't plan for when the person you relied on is gone. All you have in the end is yourself. There's no such thing as _home.”  
  
_ There was a long pause. Kaz turned away to avoid Ocelot's piercing gaze, but he could almost feel his eyes on him even with his faced turned to the window. His skin prickled subconsciously.  
  
“If you want to know what I _really_ think... You're giving him too much credit. That base, that small _empire_ you built together... That was never his idea, was it? Sure, he's charismatic, he's a good soldier, he's a lot of things. But the man doesn't have a single ambitious bone in his body.”  
  
Kaz shifted against the window uncomfortably. “What are you saying?”  
  
“Well, it's obvious, isn't it? Whose hand was _really_ behind the _Militaires Sans Frontiers_?”  
  
Kaz could feel the entire MSF rolling in their graves at that pronunciation. _“_ Please, do me a favor and _never say that again_.”  
  
Ocelot went on more seriously, unperturbed by the critique on his accent. “The evidence of your work may have been wiped from existence, but you left more of an impression than you may think.”  
  
“What the fuck are you _talking about._ It's over, okay? MSF is gone, Snake _may as well be_ gone, and I've had enough of building a bunch of stupid platforms in the ocean after having to watch them get obliterated along with all our men. End of story.”  
  
“But if he _does_ come back... if he wakes up... wouldn't you want to have something ready for him to return to? A _new_ home. You could do it again. Better than last time.” Ocelot paused, fixing him with a particularly intense glance. “You're the only person who can.”

  
Kaz wasn't sure if Ocelot was trying to give him some kind of bizarre pep talk, or buttering him up for his purposes with cloying flattery.  
  
And then it hit him.  
  
He'd already suspected it, but in that moment, Kaz _knew_ , beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Ocelot _had_ to be aware of where Snake was being held, and now he was dangling him in front of Kaz like a prize he'd gain for staying in line.  
  
That's what it came down to. They trusted _Ocelot_ , of all people, but not Kaz. Right when he'd just begun to _tolerate_ the man, it all came flying at him in a whirlwind of unbridled fury.  
  
Of _course_ Ocelot was part of the whole fucking _conspiracy_ against him—an intimate cog of this infuriatingly cryptic machine. His smug, holier-than-thou attitude should've been proof enough. That two-faced _bitch_ had lured him in with the promise of a new business connection, but now Kaz really understood why.  
  
They wanted to keep Kaz _busy._  
  
“You... _You know where he is, don't you._ ” Kaz could feel his voice shaking. “You know where they're keeping him _—_ you're _one of them,_ aren't you?”  
  
Ocelot looked almost surprised, but betrayed nothing beyond the slightest amused smile. “One of who? Why don't you say it, Miller? Who do you think I'm working with?”  
  
“Zero _,”_ Kaz spat. “ _Cipher._ I should've known it from the moment you said 'old friend.' What a bunch of bullshit. All of you people, lying through your teeth, using Snake as some _figurehead_ to sell your agenda. You probably wanted all this to happen— _planned_ to knock him down after he got too many of his own ideas. I should've known Zero couldn't let me go, either. He had to send one of his _lackeys_ after me. Isn't that right?!” Kaz was seething now, infuriated by his own stupidity for playing along unaware as long as he had. “ _Answer me!_ ” He lunged across the car, locking his hands around Ocelot's throat. The vehicle swerved from side to side as Ocelot fought to free himself, and then Kaz felt a horrible scraping as they sideswiped a car going the opposite way, the side mirror lost to oblivion. With the shock of partial impact, Kaz lost his grip just long enough for Ocelot to wrestle himself from his hands, and they screeched down a side road, Ocelot bringing the car to a halt behind a dusty slope of scrubby trees, out of view from the main road. Ocelot slammed the door a little harder than necessary on his way out, and Kaz followed him, still fuming and aching for a fight.  
  
Ocelot met him with an exaggerated sigh, his eyes tracing the crumpled scrape that lined the entire length of the car. “See what you did? We'll _never_ get the rental deposit back now.”  
  
“You're lucky it's not your _face,_ you son of a bitch.”  
  
Ocelot laughed. “I'd like to see you try.” He stretched his arms lazily and cracked his neck, as if readying for a fight. “Well? You have anything else to say? Want to try to _kill_ me? A half-baked plan, at best, but I don't know... maybe all the intel is wrong. Maybe I _am_ underestimating you.”

  
Kaz exhaled through his teeth and turned away, ignoring Ocelot as he walked back toward the road. “ _Fuck_ you.”  
  
“I'd like to see you try that, too,” Ocelot smirked in his periphery, and Kaz kept walking.  
  
When he had almost reached the road, Ocelot called after him again. “You know, if you leave now, you'll never find what you're looking for. I'm the only connection to Snake you have left. You _do_ know that, don't you?”  
  
“That's a risk I'm prepared to take,” Kaz shot back fiercely, his back still stubbornly turned to the other man.  
  
“Well, when you're done throwing your tantrum, I'll be waiting here as your faithful chauffeur to a lucrative arms dealing job in Algiers. But I guess you've got something better to do.”  
  
Kaz paused when he reached the edge of the road. It was quiet, peaceful, a picturesque view of Southern France sloping off in the distance. A panorama of green hills punctuated by rocky outcroppings stretched before him, the land sprinkled with buildings that looked like they'd been there for hundreds of years. He wondered what it'd be like to live in a place like this.  
  
...Probably pretty fucking boring.  
  
He slid his hands into his pockets, feeling the cool breeze sweep across the hills, the scent of the air telling him the sea wasn't far off from here. A couple cars zipped past him from time to time, unconcerned with the presence of a strange blonde man with stains down the front of his shirt. They were probably better off not investigating, anyway.  
  
Ocelot was right, as much as he hated to admit it. He _didn't_ have anything better to do.  
  
With a final drawn out sigh, Kaz accepted his fate. He turned away from the road and walked back down the hill to where Ocelot and the trashed rental car awaited him. Ocelot, who had been picking something off his glove, turned to welcome Kaz back with the most disgustingly smug smile he'd seen from the man yet.  
  
Kaz wondered exactly what he'd done in life to deserve this particular version of hell.  
  
To be fair, he'd done a lot.

 


End file.
